No, you cannot produce snow in October

Snowtober, Snowpocalypse, Snowlaween- no matter what nickname was used, it was completely unnecessary.  The weather man warned that a random nor'easter storm would blow through the Saturday before Halloween.  I had yet to see one leaf fall (note the green foliage) and barely broken out my autumn wardrobe, it surely was not time for gloves.  Nonetheless, the rain froze on its way down and the wind was beyond cold; this was obviously Mother Nature's cruel joke on all girls who decided to dress up as a sexy cop, sexy nurse, or other form of generic costume in which you can place the adjective 'sexy' in front of.  So please keep your snow until at least December, I cannot be expected to enjoy a good pumpkin ale in 3 layers of clothing- it's just not natural.

No, you cannot make the street dirtier than it already is

If you live in Manhattan you can tell the difference between a city bus, delivery truck, and a taxi cab just by the very distinct and ostentatiously loud noises they make.  Every Tuesday and Thursday on my walk to work I am greeted by the New York Department of Sanitation's beloved street sweeper, a monster truck that comes trudging down the streets and avenues of the city, weaving in and out of cars who decided not to follow the alternate-side parking codes that day.  One would assume that this vehicle is used to clean the mean streets, leaving a shiny finish for pedestrians to stride upon.  Unfortunately, assuming that would be incorrect because this truck does nothing but slosh around the trash and grime pitted near the curbs.  Not only that, whatever 'cleaning fluid' comes out of the super-sized scrubbing brushes positioned below does not look at all sanitary.  Anytime I hear the roar of the engine approaching, I shimmy up against the closest building as the brushes spew out the fluid infusing with trash juice and debris, which in turn splash on to the sidewalk in attempt to soil my cute fall boots.  Once it finally rides by, the aforementioned liquid now gives the street an aroma of fresh garbage peppered with 5 dogs walked in that very spot that morning and lo mein left for the mice the night before. I didn't think it was possible but I'm pretty sure the street sweeper is actually making the street more soiled; how about we suspend service for a while so I can save my tax dollars and walk to work in undisturbed filth?

No, you cannot run a pet store on the street corner

Only in New York can a simple task like dropping a letter in a mailbox render difficult because of an unexpected obstacle. Today I crossed the street in front of my office to perform this everyday errand; if you time it just right, there's a few seconds of leeway to cross and return within one stop light cycle.  I've got this down to a science but was prevented from completing my usual mission when I noticed a crowd near the drop box.  There on the sidewalk were a multitude of animals accompanied by a man unpacking his cart full of their various cages, beds, and toys.  I stepped over a cat and dog fight and nearly tripped on a leash just to reach the mailbox.  Why yes, there's the pet store owner himself with 2 dogs, 3 cats, a canary, and the always necessary gerbil.  (Surely the gerbil has it best as his bed consists of a Cinderella pillow positioned atop a cardboard box pedestal.) 

You may be wondering why the man decided this was a prime location to park his furry friends?  When I walked by later on a coffee break, passerbys thought it sanitary to pet the animals and even compensate the man for letting them do so.  Oh the ways people find to make money here; if only I had a turtle and a few hamsters, I could quit my day job.

No, you cannot press the button after me

It’s a frequent trait that every human displays: impatience.  I myself do not fall short of this flaw; I’ve certainly channeled by previous road rage into walk rage on the streets of the mean city.  Though if ever there was one thing that brings out the antsy in us all it is waiting on an elevator.  We somehow believe by pressing the button multiple times in a row that the floating box will come down more quickly.  Along those lines of thinking, if you press the button harder the second, third, and fourth times, the doors may just be willed open faster.  I’m totally on board with this theory because, if anything, it routes my angst to the button rather than the wait time.

One unspoken law in the elevator waiting game is pressing the button when it’s already lit up, on its way to retrieve passengers.  Worse than standing idle is when some rando walks in and presses the button after you already have the aforementioned four times.  Do you think I like to hang out in lobbies staring at myself in the mirrored elevator doors while others whip by me with somewhere to go?  Do you assume that I am such an unpracticed citizen that the first action I take when walking into the elevator area is NOT pushing the button?  Confirm your building mate’s competence by hanging out like everyone else for a second.  If a couple of minutes pass and there seems to be no activity on the front, permission granted to press the button another six times; surely the sixth round will make all the difference.

No, you cannot forget your manners

I don’t know about your office but mine has a constant need to clean the bathrooms, which is timed perfectly to occur at the exact moment my morning coffee meets my bladder.  Though the sinks and porcelain thrones receive multiple wipe downs a day, I cannot figure out at what point the room becomes a disaster. Toilet rolls unraveled on the floor stretching across stalls, non-use of the seat protectors, stray paper towels clogging the sink- it’s amazing what professional women are capable of with only 2 minutes between meetings to take a bathroom break.

My friend was at a doctor’s office last week when she noticed a sign placed at eye level on the back of the stall door.  It’s not so much the reminder to clean up after yourself that is unyielding; it’s the use of the phrase ‘nasty ladies’ to address the female population and far too many exclamation points that makes me wonder if this was approved prior to posting. My plea to professional women everywhere is to remember your manners and practical rhymes learned in kindergarten- “If you sprinkle where you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie”; life advice that will always apply.

No, you cannot match your doll

It’s always a fun moment to open my email and find a gem like this.  My friend forwarded a photo taken on the subway of a man looking completely comfortable wearing a pair of python pants and a turtleneck while holding a doll in his lap with a matching ensemble. 

That was a sentence loaded with things that are wrong. 

I’m not sure which to address first, the outfit or the doll.  Let’s ignore the turtleneck, as torturing and unnecessary in September as it may be; no sane grown man should feel at ease walking out of his apartment in a number like this with a twin mini-me doll in tow. I wonder if the man is jealous that they happened to have a full python outfit to fit the doll but not one in his own size?  I venture to assume he made the outfits himself because I have yet to come across a store in New York that sells this type of pairing, though I’m sure St. Marks has something very close.  I would also like to note the innocent subway riders seated nearby, who seem to be trying very hard to ignore the fact that they are in the presence of a person with agalmatophilia.  As strange as it is, this is just another example of a moment where you almost allow yourself to get worked up about the ridiculousness of the situation, then remember you’re in New York and, frankly, this isn’t the strangest thing you’ve seen today.

No, you cannot leave me barefoot

The month of August was a whirlwind as I was rarely in the city.  I was sure in all of my travels that the stories of real people doing really ridiculous things would flood in, leaving me with a mean case of temporary carpal tunnel from all of the blogging to be had.  Funny enough, it took coming back to the city that never sleeps and hearing a co-workers morning commute horror story to confirm that New York never fails to deliver great material.

It was Friday morning; everyone woke up praising the weekend Gods because, though it was a short week due to the Labor Day holiday, four days is really all any sane person can take.  As I was logging into my email and getting the day started, I overheard a co-worker relaying a story about the shoes currently on her feet and how they were not her favorite.  Never missing an opportunity to distract myself with a convo on shoes, I asked her why she wore them if they did not suit her taste.  It was not the time to be asking this question.

Earlier that morning as she stepped off the express train to cross the platform for the local, a distracted commuter stepped on the back of her shoe, causing it to come right off her foot and fall through the very small space between the train and the platform.  The almighty subway voice is continuously reminding people to ‘mind the gap’ when stepping off the train, which is virtually ignored seeing as the ‘gap’ is really only 5 inches wide.  The man pushed right past her running towards the closing doors of the local train, not even offering a quick yet heartless apology.  As it starts to compute what has just happened, my co-worker was faced with a fight-or-flight situation, options including:

1. Catch an uptown train back to her apartment, where the station is five blocks from her front door. 
2. Make a mad dash for the local train as previously planned.
3. Jump on to the track, retrieve lost shoe, and use super upper-body strength to propel back on the platform.
4. Cry.

Because New Yorkers tend to take the fight rather than flight options, said co-worker goes with #2, giving the consequences of this choice a few more stops to set in until reaching her final destination.  Once in Union Square, she is forced to hobble onto the platform, up the subway stairs, and through the concrete jungle they call a park, all with one shoe.  Every female in Manhattan knows the cardinal rule: you may be out on the town in your cutest pair of 5-inch stilettos, to which no surprise will kill you 2 hours in.  You will form blisters, wobble at the ankles, even chance mild bleeding, but at no cost will you take off your shoes and walk barefoot through the streets of New York.  This is not college, people; there are REAL germs here.  Knowing this, my co-worker really had no choice but to hobble to the nearest store to obtain an intermediate pair of anything in order to get through the day.  Being 8:30 am, the nearby H&M’s and Gaps of the world were not yet open for business, leaving just one option- the Payless Shoe Source an avenue and 2 blocks away.  Though the possibility of contracting a mild foot fungus was high, she walked tall- past the Green Market vendors, past the bum outside of the McDonald’s, past the piles of trash which had been leaking their guts onto the sidewalk since 2pm the day before.  She just kept walking.  Poised as a petunia, she was almost there when a naysayer with no heart yelled, “Hey, where’s your other shoe?” as he passed her by.  Clearly this woman did not leave the house and forget one shoe.  Did this man also yell to the guy who walks around with a cat on his head or the woman who pushes her rainbow-colored poodle around in a shopping cart? Did he ask them why they did these strange things?  No, he did not; he decided to zero in on the one thing that, though odd, was more than likely not the product of crazy town thinking.  Ignoring this defeating question, she made it to the Payless where the cheapest, work-appropriate shoe left much to be desired.  After shelling out unnecessary cash, she finally found herself in the office, explaining a story about why these shoes just weren’t her favorite while I questioned why her foot was not currently soaking in a vat of hand sanitizer.  In hindsight, knowing where the original decision to catch the local train would take her, I’m pretty sure the slim possibility of death in option 3 now seems more appealing.

No, you cannot take a nap at a concert

There's nothing like a country concert in Jersey- the boots, the cowboy hats, the guidos and guidettes who seem somehow out of place.  It was an overcast day at the New Meadowlands Stadium, home of the New York Jets, where a slew of interesting tailgates were occurring.  Looking around, I wondered whether some of the people there actually liked Kenny Chesney or simply had heard there was an outdoor party they should attend in the parking lot that day.

Upon entering the packed stadium, we made our way to the third tier with all of the other broke 20-something Manhattanites, finding our seats along with a few empty around us.  As the Zac Brown Band sang us a little Chicken Fried, two men claimed the seats next to us, though their sureness of this choice looked unstable as obviously they were not supposed to be sitting there.  When the actual owners of the seats came a few minutes later, the nomads moved on to empty spaces a couple rows below, along with five other friends.  There they proceeded to smoke and carry on, disturbing our fellow concert-goers who simply came to have a good time and hear some great music.  Eventually, those seats were also taken by the actual ticket holders and all but the original two gentleman (word used loosely) were left to watch the show.  I suppose all of this moving rows tired them out- one of the men left the show completely, while the other, as you can see in the photo below, decided to take a little snooze.  I can't comprehend how one can fall asleep in a packed audience of 55,000 and blaring live music, but this man quieted my nasaying as he proved it can be done.  Saddest part is, his friends left him there and did not return to make sure he was conscious and/or had a ride home.  If the music bores you that much, it's probably safe to say you should have stopped the party at the tailgate.

No, you cannot display your full moon in public

In 1992 New York's highest state court ruled that women can be top-free in public; fortunately during this unnecessary case they did not approve of baring the bottom half, as I'm sure this would have resulted in naked people roaming Manhattan at all times.  While out in the Lower East Side this weekend, my friends and I spotted a large fire engine and 12 firemen standing idly on the corner.  You'd think there was some sort of emergency with all of the commotion, but alas they were a little too preoccupied to be putting out any fires.  There, standing outside of Spitzer's, was the real show stopper- a girl with her ass completely hanging out, dress flapping in the wind.  Best part was not only had she been standing there for quite some time, but had fully mooned the entire squadron of FDNY Engine 9, Ladder 6 without one of them pointing out her wardrobe malfunction.  I felt bad forcing my friend to stop texting and start taking some photos, but this moment doesn't come often enough to go without notice.  Let's learn something from our illegal friend here, shall we?

1. Avoid dresses made with back closure apparatus 
2. If you feel a breeze in places you usually don't, it's probably a good idea to assess the situation
3. And most importantly, always sport cute underwear because you never know who may see it

No, you cannot pimp your child out at a bar

If you've ever been to the Hamptons, you've been to Cyril's.  If you've been to Cyril's, you were more than likely there on a Saturday afternoon- sun shining brightly in the midday sky, drink in hand, 20-somethings with next to nothing on.  This my friends is a beach party; you don't come in your Lily dress, wearing heels or a bow tie, and you certainly don't bring your child.  In the backyard of this seafood spectacular is where you can find a bar dedicated to concocting only BBC's (look it up) and a live DJ ready to let that rum topper go to work.  Apparently this man saw the non-sober afternoon soiree as the perfect place to introduce his 1-year old son to the ladies.  As you can tell by the faces of the men surrounding the dance circle, they were not happy about this small but lethal competition.  Just as the dance-off had begun, the tiny tot was scooted out into the middle of the floor, abounding encouragement coming from whom I assume is his father (though alcoholic uncle attempting to pick up chicks is a viable second thought.)  Don't get me wrong, it was absolutely adorable watching the little man get into the music with a crowd egging him on, random girls picking him up and slinging him around the dance floor, aka gravel.  It just seems this would be more appropriate if at a wedding or a child's birthday party, not in a popular bar full of unruly frat boys and girls 3 sheets to the wind roaming around.  Just saying.